Chapter 4

The sun was low on the horizon by the time they arrived at HQ, bathing the scene with ruddy light. Reggie turned off the main road and Sam was sure this was another joke. He'd expected another outcrop of tents and tin huts, but the view before him looked more like a picture postcard. The truck passed through a gate in a wrought iron fence and headed down a tree-lined lane. Over the years limbs had been cut back to allow vehicles passage, leaving the crowns grown together at the top. It felt like they were driving through a tunnel.

At the end of the lane Sam could see a huge house built of stone. It was three stories high, and the warm light sparkled off of its many windows. Neatly manicured lawns and flowerbeds surrounded the house. Correction, Sam thought as they drew nearer. It looks like someone has driven heavy trucks across the lawn, and the shrubbery needs a good trim.

"Reggie, I thought you said we were going to HQ," Sam said. He watched Reggie's face for signs of merriment.

"And so we are, Mate," Reggie replied seriously. He swung his head to regard Sam, who was crammed in the small seat with Billy. "You don't think officers would camp like the rest of us, do you?"

"Well, no, not really," Sam said. "But this is someone's home."

"Right you are," Billy agreed cheerfully. "And they've graciously allowed us to use it as headquarters."

"More like we commandeered it," Reggie put in. "They've got plenty of money, so they're not hurting. They've gone off to their home in Paris and we've got the run of the chateau."

"Looks like you haven't kept up the landscape," Sam said dryly.

"If the Huns get through the lines and overrun Paris it won't matter what happens to this place," Reggie commented.

"Good point," Sam replied.

They parked the truck and walked to the front door where they stated their business to the guard. He allowed them to enter, saying that the Captain was there. Sam stopped just inside the doorway to stare. The entryway was huge, with a beautiful chandelier hanging from the high arched ceiling. It wasn't lit; he could only catch glimmers of its many crystals from a small electric lamp placed on a table by the door. They're saving money where they can, Sam thought.

But the beauty was marred by muddy footprints on the marble floor and an untidy pile of coats, boots and weapons occupying one corner. He could hear sounds of revelry coming from deeper inside the chateau; something made of glass shattered and men laughed raucously.

Billy moved past him, then turned at the doorway. "C'mon then, Mate," he urged. "The party's this way."

Sam hurried to follow so he wouldn't get lost in the big house. Clearly Billy and Reggie had been there before and knew where they were going, although he probably could've simply followed the noise. The three of them entered a dining room seemingly large enough to seat the entire army. It was full of men, most of them obviously drunk. A few were still eating their dinner, some were playing cards, and the rest were watching two men engaged in a boxing match which was the source of the noise.

"I see the Cap'n over there," Reggie said, pointing. He headed that direction while Billy joined the group egging on the fighters. Sam watched as Billy pulled money from his wallet and handed it to one of the on-lookers; the man already had a fistful of cash. One of the combatants threw a punch and the other stepped nimbly out of his way; the first man's momentum carried him through the crowd and he slammed into the wall and sank down against it. The impact knocked loose a heavy gilt-framed painting which landed on his head; the canvas pulled loose from the frame which hung around his neck like some bizarre necklace.

Sam dashed across the room to help, but before he could get there someone removed the damaged painting, tossing it across the room, and several men pulled the dazed boxer to his feet.

"Get back in there, you useless sod," one of them yelled, shoving him back toward the center of the rough circle.

"If I lose my five quid I'll take it out on you," someone else threatened.

The fight continued; it looked like a grudge match, both men clearly angry about something. Probably some silly insult, Sam thought. But perhaps he should stay and help patch them up when it was over; they looked like they'd need it.

Reggie tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention. "Cap'n wants to talk to you," he shouted.

"Let's go somewhere where we can hear," Sam suggested, turning away from the fight and following Reggie.

The captain was waiting for them near a doorway; a small man with a neat mustache. They walked down a hallway to a smaller room; Sam saw other damage to the house as they went, including not a few bullet holes in the woodwork.

Reggie shut the door, which cut down the clamor considerably. Sam introduced himself to the captain.

"Captain George Downey," the officer said as they shook hands. Though his uniform was rumpled and Sam could see a blob of gravy on the shirt, the man's manner had changed to one of alertness and command. "What can I do for you?"

Sam explained the situation and his need for scrap iron to make repairs. "Reggie seemed to think you might know someone who can get it for me, " he ended.

"That'd be the Fortiers," George said. "If anyone can find something useful, it'd be them. How much do you need?"

Sam pulled the two broken pieces from his pocket and handed them to him. "I'd like to have enough to make a new piece, but if not I can try patching this one."

George examined them and gave them back. "I'll take you there in the morning, at first light. Their farm's not far from here and there's a forge on the chateau property. We need to get that gun back in action, and I appreciate your efforts. Have you eaten?"

Reggie perked up at the mention of food.

"No, Sir, we haven't," Sam replied. "I hate to be a bother, but is there someplace here where I could sleep tonight?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to take whatever's left, but I'll send an orderly to the kitchen and I'm sure he can find you a cot," the captain replied. He eyed Reggie doubtfully. "You and your mate will have to be off to Corbie Hill in the morning but I reckon you could use a night in decent accommodations."

They heard a loud roar from the direction of the dining room.

"Fight must be over," Reggie commented. From the look on his face he was disappointed he'd missed it.

"Um, is it always so noisy here?" Sam asked.

"The lads are just havin' a little fun," Reggie said.

"You haven't been here long, have you?" George asked Sam. He continued without waiting for an answer. "The men here are pilots; they risk their lives every day. Every morning when they wake up they don't know if they'll make it back here that night. They don't want to think about what tomorrow may hold, and they'll do almost anything to put it out of their minds. The problem is that there isn't much they can do; they drink and then they fight. Then, if they're lucky, they do it all over again the next day."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," Sam said thoughtfully. "The stress must be horrible."

George shook his head sadly. "The average lifespan of a pilot is three weeks."

"Three weeks?" Sam exclaimed. "And they keep volunteering?"

"They're bloody heroes," the captain said. "We'll need every one of them and then some to win this war. Just like we need men like yourself Mr. Beckett; your job is neither as dangerous nor as glamorous, but every bit as important. And of course our brave gunners, too," he said with a nod to Reggie.

The Fortier farm looked tranquil in the early morning light. Perhaps it was the familiar sound of cattle lowing that made Sam feel instantly at home. The house was built from thick timbers and looked like it'd been there for 100 years; it probably had. A woman answered the captain's knock and greeted him in broken English; she obviously knew him and invited them in with a hand gesture.

The house was small, but charming in a very rural way. There wasn't a lot of furniture, and what was there was crude but serviceable; it too looked like it had been hand-built a long time ago. The room was dark, lit only by a single candle on the table; but lengths of cheery fabric at the windows and doorways gave it a homey, comfortable feel.

Before he stopped to think about it Sam spoke to her in fluent French. Her name was Yvonne, and her husband Etienne was out taking care of the animals before breakfast. Two young children, Denis and Madeleine, ran into the room, having heard voices. They seemed entranced with an American who actually spoke more than three words of their language.

George waited for the chatter to end before remarking, "You're full of surprises, Mr. Beckett. How do you come to speak French?"

"Oh, ah, well…my Grandmother was French," Sam stammered out the lie.

"Your Grandmother was as American as apple pie!" Al said as he stepped through the bright rectangle of the Imaging Chamber door. This morning he was wearing an orange silk shirt over gray slacks, with leopard-print suspenders. "But then he doesn't know that, and it's better than telling him you speak seven languages. He'd never believe that."

"Good!" George replied. "You can explain what you want then." He walked over to warm his hands at the wood-burning stove in the corner.

Yvonne returned to her work as she listened to Sam's explanation. Al puffed on his cigar as he watched her graceful movements. "I can't understand a word she's saying, but I bet a pretty woman like that speaks the universal language."

Sam flashed an irritated look at Al but spoke to George. "She says I need to talk to her husband." He put a slight emphasis on the word for Al's benefit. "Denis will show me the way and you can stay here."

Al looked offended. "How was I supposed to know she was married?" He pulled the handlink from his pocket and began punching its buttons.

Madeleine looked in Al's direction, head cocked to the side as if she'd seen or heard something.

"Suits me, it's warm in here," George said.

"Can she see me?" Al asked in a slightly panicked tone. He whacked the handlink with the heel of his other hand, muttering, "No, how old are the kids? Oh, good, she's six, she shouldn't be able to see me. Maybe she just picked up on you looking at me, that's all. And he's eight, so he's too old." He let the handlink droop and turned his attention to Sam. I'll wait here for you Sam, that way the farm animals won't see me either and cause any problems for you."

"Okay, I'll be back in a few minutes," Sam told them both.

Denis bounced along beside Sam as they walked across the farm in the early morning light. He proudly pointed out the fields and sheds, and kept up a running chatter about the various crops and animals and work that had to be done. Sam enjoyed the walk and was startled to find that aside from the lack of mechanized equipment this farm was run very much like his father's had been.

It occurred to him that he'd thought this family was poor because they didn't have any "modern" technological tools like electricity or trucks but they were rich in the things that counted. They were self-sufficient, producing enough crops to feed themselves as well as buy what few things they couldn't make. Their household was full of love and the pride of work well done; and they were clearly willing to do what they could to help the soldiers in protecting their lives and land.

Denis stuck his head inside the barn, then waved Sam forward. "Papa's in here," he said.

Monsieur Fortier was busy milking the cows, a task that immediately made Sam feel nostalgic. Denis excitedly explained Sam's mission to his father. Etienne looked over his shoulder at Sam and said, "Milk, then talk."

Sam understood the importance of getting the work done, so he grabbed a second pail. "I'd be glad to help you if you'd like, and we can talk while we work."

Etienne cocked an eyebrow at Sam, apparently surprised at both his offer and his ability to speak French, but told him which cow was next to be milked. Sam settled into the work and was well aware that Etienne watched him closely for a few minutes until he was sure Sam knew what he was doing. Denis was sent back to the house and the two men made conversation as they worked. They discussed farming and families and the weather, but the subject of war didn't come up and Sam didn't press the issue. He pointed out a barn cat who'd crept closer to beg some fresh milk, and laughed when Etienne deftly squirted some into the cat's open mouth. Some things never changed.

When they were finished Sam said, "I'll take the milk back to the house, and then help with the rest of the chores." Though he knew it was important to get the iron so he could repair the gun, he'd already seen too much of this war and found it relaxing to spend time on this farm.

Etienne smiled. "You have come at a good time. This was my last task, and now we go eat." He grew more serious. "Then we will discuss what you need, and I will see if we can help."

They left the barn, each carrying heavy pails of milk. As they neared the chicken coop the hens suddenly began squawking and flapping their wings. Sam looked up to see that Al had materialized just outside the coop.

"Sam, I'm afraid I've got some bad news," Al said.

"What is it?" Sam asked, trying not to sound too worried.

Etienne set his pail on the ground and ran for the pen. "It could be a snake come to steal the eggs," he called over his shoulder. He unlatched the gate and began an inspection, which only agitated the hens further.

Al moved nearer to Sam, taking advantage of the distraction so they could talk. "I asked Ziggy to check up on this family just in case, you know."

Sam motioned for him to continue. "And? Does something happen to them?"

Al winced at having to bear bad news. "On Sunday a German plane flies over and drops a bomb on the house."

"Why?" Sam asked incredulously. "They're no threat to the Germans."

"Why?" Al echoed. "Ah, we don't know that. It's a war, Sam; things happen in war. It might've even been an accident, who knows? Maybe the pilot was lost and confused or maybe he hit the release by mistake. But it hits at dinnertime, the whole family's in the house. They're all killed, Sam."

"I can't let that happen," Sam said with determination. Then a thought struck him. "Is that why I'm here? To save them?"

"I doubt it," Al replied. "They're just farmers, they couldn't affect the outcome of the war. But it doesn't matter if that's your mission or not; I knew you'd want to know. I thought maybe if you knew ahead of time you might be able to think of something." The expression on his face said he didn't have any ideas.

"Of course I want to save them!" Sam replied vehemently. "I don't care if they don't have anything to do with the war; just because I Leaped into the middle of a war it doesn't mean I'm here to affect its outcome." He raised an eyebrow in a skeptical look. "You're not still thinking about the Red Baron, are you?"

"No. Yes! I don't know, Sam," Al shrugged in confusion. "His death would be a tremendous boost to Allied morale, but I'll admit I don't see how you could pull it off."

Sam shook his head in resignation. "I don't see how I can stop this house from being bombed, either. This is tough, Al. There's so many people here, and I can't save every one of them."

"I know, Sam," Al commiserated. "Even with Ziggy's capacity it's impossible for her to know which one – or ones – will make some difference in the future. And way too many people have already died in this war. None of them should've had to die."

Sam sighed loudly. "I guess I'll just have to take any chance to help someone, and hope I Leap out of here soon."

Etienne had quieted the chickens and returned. "I didn't see a snake; I don't know what upset them. Come on, let's go eat. Yvonne loves feeding the soldiers; she thinks a home-cooked meal does wonders for their morale. It's one way she can help."

"You do that, Sam, and I'll keep checking on the soldiers at the aerodrome. Ooh, and the Australians too; they could still be important."

"Sounds good," Sam said.

Al called up the door and vanished through it, as Sam and Etienne headed for the house. Yvonne had breakfast ready when they arrived; eggs and fresh-baked bread and cheese, washed down with the milk they'd brought. It wasn't exactly like the breakfasts that Sam's mother had made, but close enough to make him feel nostalgic.

After breakfast Etienne asked Sam about the iron he needed. Sam pulled the broken pieces from his pocket and handed them to Etienne. "I need enough to forge a new one of these, if possible. At least enough to put this one back together. I know iron is scarce these days."

Etienne studied the pieces, estimating their weight and obviously thinking about where he might find enough metal. Yvonne took them in turn to make her own assessment. Although Sam firmly believed that women were capable of doing nearly anything that a man could do he found himself surprised that this French farmwife would take an interest in what this era considered man's work. It didn't surprise him that Denis and Madeleine crowded around to get a look; kids were always curious, especially when it came to things the adults were doing.

The four family members began a rapid-fire discussion that included so many unfamiliar place names and references like 'down by the creek' that he could barely follow. Yvonne handed the pieces back to Sam. "I believe I know where to find the iron for you, Monsieur Beckett."

"Great!" Sam said. "Let's go get it so I can get started."

Yvonne smiled as if at a child who'd asked the impossible. "It would be better if you did not go with me."

George had necessarily been fairly quiet during the meal and discussion, but could see that there was a problem. "What's the matter? Can't she get it for us?"

Sam looked puzzled. "Yes. Or at least she thinks she can," he told George. "But she doesn't seem to want me to go with her."

George laughed loudly. "'Course not, you dolt!" he relied. "You'd stick out like a sore thumb in your uniform." He reached out to tug on Sam's sleeve to make the point. "Most folks around here like to pretend they're neutral, just in case the Huns should get across the line and take over this area."

"Please believe me, we will do all we can to help," Etienne said. "But not everyone feels that way; we must be a little careful."

"Is our presence here a danger to you?" Sam asked sharply.

"It's one thing to have soldiers visit," Yvonne began.

"Soldiers are always dropping out of the sky!" Madeleine put in cheerfully.

Yvonne stroked her daughter's hair fondly. "We just don't want to be seen helping too much. You understand; we do not know who will win this war."

"But you do help us," Sam said leadingly. "George told me you've been a big help." He wanted so badly to tell them that the Allies would indeed win this war, but they would assume he was just trying to be optimistic. Besides, he was all too aware of Al's prediction and hadn't a clue what to do about it. Yet, he told himself.

"We do not want the Germans to control our land," Etienne said firmly. "Thus, we do whatever we can. You need iron? We find iron for you. We watch the skies for aeroplanes that have crashed; we tend to the pilots and help them get back to their camp – or detain the German pilots until they can be arrested."

"We pass on any information that might be useful," Yvonne put in.

"What kind of information?" Sam asked.

"Oh, you would be surprised at all the little things that are mentioned in letters," she said airily. "Someone's German cousin writes that his entire unit is being moved perhaps. He does not say where of course, but it may help the generals to know that the forces are moving around."

Sam smiled in understanding. "Okay, I get it. And, uh, we really appreciate all your help." Privately he thought, They're the resistance. Or the beginnings of it anyway; I don't remember an organized resistance movement in World War One.

"Just please be careful," he added. He wondered if the coming bomb were some kind of retaliation. He had two days' time until it happened; maybe he could think of some way to prevent it. A decoy of some sort? Could he convince them to dine in the dark and leave lanterns lit in the barn? He felt like he was in some spy novel.

"Always!" Yvonne replied. "We will send word to the chateau if we are able to find some iron for you."

"Thank you," Sam told them. Then he gave George the short story and said, "So I guess that's our cue to leave."

"Right you are!" George said. "We'll be getting you back to Bertangles one way or another."

As if he didn't have enough on his mind, Sam wondered if he'd have to hitch a ride in a haywagon.